


In Action

by solitaryjo



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 21:18:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5020858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitaryjo/pseuds/solitaryjo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the kink meme asking for a fic about Strange's reaction when he sees Grant doing what soldiers are ultimately trained to do: kill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Action

Strange flinched as the gunfire started up again, closer this time. He had managed to suppress that reflex over the last few months but with Jeremy’s death still so raw in his mind and this battle going on for the best part of ten hours, his nerves were beginning to fray. They were vastly outnumbered and had almost been surrounded by the enemy on a number of occasions. It was enough to make any man lose some measure of self control.

_Well,_  he thought,  _maybe not quite **any**  man._ 

He glanced over at Major Grant who barely seemed to notice the chaos going on around him as he scanned their surroundings, calmly working out the angles and distances in his head and calculating the course of action most likely to ensure their survival. Oddly enough, this made Strange feel a lot calmer too. Were it not for Grant, he might well have done the unthinkable and abandoned the army altogether after his first real taste of combat had resulted in such a heartbreaking loss but the Major’s kind words had soothed his anxiety and ever since then he had only to look at Grant to feel the rising panic in his breast subside.

Grant seemed to come to a decision. He put his spyglass away and beckoned, “This way,” putting his hand on Strange’s back and steering him towards the trees on their left. “There is a river not far from here and if we take a direct route across it we will be back among our own men in no time.” 

When they reached the river, however, it immediately became evident that Grant has made an uncharacteristic mistake. There must have been heavy rain in the mountains during the last few days because what had once been an easily fordable brook was now a raging torrent of white water.

Grant stopped dead in his tracks and swore under his breath but his concern for the Strange’s state of mind and his years of experience in command of young men who might balk at any suggestion of weakness in their leader helped him to keep his voice steady as he shrugged. “Well, I suppose we will just have to find another way.”

Strange nodded. Despite their apparently dire predicament, he had absolutely no doubt that Grant would get them out of this alive.

Suddenly, Grant froze, his head cocked to one side like a fox that has caught the baying of the hounds on a sudden change in the wind. “Get down!” he cried, throwing himself on top of Strange just as three French soldiers emerged from the tree line, muskets blazing. Fortunately, the weapons’ notorious lack of accuracy held true even at this range and it was the trees on the far side of the river that took the brunt of the damage. Moreover, it seemed as if the French had gambled their last ammunition on the success of the ambush as they threw down their guns and began to advance with their swords drawn.

Trapped between the river and the enemy, Strange almost felt his resolve deserting him but Grant grabbed him and shook him by the shoulders. “Focus, Merlin.” His insistence brought Strange back to himself. “There must be something you can do. Use your magic. Move the trees, the river, anything...”

Strange remembered to breathe. “I...yes...perhaps...I do not know. I need to think.”

Grant nodded. “Good. But do not think for too long. I will hold them off.”

He drew his curved sabre from the sheath at his waist and took up a position between Strange and the advancing soldiers. It was a long time since he had engaged in this particular kind of fight but he knew he could rely on the techniques he had practiced over and over until they were second nature. He almost smiled as the Frenchmen spread out in an attempt to flank him - the move reminding him of a time his friends in the regiment had bet him he could not take on three of them at once and had ended up buying him drinks for the next two months. Of course he had not had the added complication of trying to protect a magician at the same time back then, but the principle was the same.

The young French soldier to his left suddenly lunged at him, leading with his sword in the thrusting motion still favoured by Napoleon’s army. Grant parried and stepped to the side, allowing his opponent’s momentum to carry him forward then swinging his own weapon downward, slashing the back on the man’s leg just above the knee and sending him crashing to the ground. 

“One down!” he shouted and Strange was shocked to see a fierce grin on his face as he turned back to face the other two. He had not seen Grant fight this way before but he would have expected him to go about it in much the same way he did everything else - calm and emotionless but incredibly effective.

As the second assailant charged towards him, Grant whirled around, slicing the air with his sword and almost severing the man’s hand from his wrist with the power of his stroke. 

The third one was different. He had stood back and watched while his companions had thrown themselves at an enemy of unknown strength only to be dispatched in short measure and now he was looking at Grant with a cool appraising eye. He took up a proper stance and started to approach with slow and measured steps.

Grant knew this would be a real fight and though part of him relished the prospect, he though it might be best avoided. 

“Anything yet Merlin?” he asked over his shoulder, trying not to appear at all concerned.

“Almost. I just need to...”

Strange’s words were lost as the French captain made his move, surprising Grant by forgoing the thrust and swinging his sabre in a wide arc. Although he was clearly not practiced in this method and failed to hold the sabre in the correct position, the glancing blow from the flat of his sword was enough to knock Grant’s weapon from his grasp and cause him to stagger and the follow-up strike opened a gash along his side before he could recover his balance.

“Damn it,” Grant cursed at himself again for getting caught off guard and braced himself for the next attack but it never came. He looked up in confusion to see the captain striding past him and heading straight for Strange. Unfortunately, the magician was for once was doing what he had been told to, which involved sitting by the river with his eyes closed and a look of extreme concentration on this face.

“No!”

Grant scrabbled for his sword but it was just out of reach. Without thinking, he drew the knife from his belt and in one smooth motion flipped it so he was holding the blade and threw it with all the strength he could muster.

Strange finally realised something was happening and opened his eyes, only to be confronted by the sight of his would-be attacker stopping in mid stride, a genuinely surprised look on his face as the blade of a knife emerged from the front of his neck and he fell to the ground not two feet away. 

There was no more time to think. The man who had been the first to attack was sounding the alarm and they could hear French voices getting closer by the second.

“Now would be a good time, Merlin.” Grant was breathing hard, his face flushed and a wild look in his eyes. For a moment, Strange did not even recognise him. All he could manage to say was “I have spoken to the river,” before he grabbed Grant’s arm and pulled him over the edge into the swirling water just as a dozen French infantrymen emerged from the woods and opened fire.

The river kept its word and deposited them gently on a small shingle beach a few miles downstream, where they simply lay for a few minutes, soaked to the skin and gasping for breath. Soon though, Grant’s instincts took over and he tugged at Strange’s arm. 

“We must keep moving.” His voice broke as he tried to stand and his face contorted in pain as the wound on his side finally made itself known now that the exhilaration of the fight had worn off.

Strange did not even look at him. He just stared into the water as though he was trying to understand something that made no sense until the sound of Grant’s agonised gasp spurred him into action.

“Let me see that,” he murmured, starting to unbutton Grant’s sodden coat.

“It’s nothing,” Grant insisted, but Strange continued to work at the buttons. It was as if by having something practical to do - a task to focus on - he could avoid having to think about what he had just witnessed. He kept his head down, knowing that he would not be able to look at Grant without seeing the blade emerge from the throat of the man he had killed and remembering that fleeting but utterly terrifying look in the eyes of the man he thought he knew.

“Merlin?” Grant tried to catch his eye, sensing that something had changed between then but unsure what had caused it.

Strange knew he could not ignore what had happened or how it had affected him but he could not bring himself to address the issue directly.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

“Do what?” Grant looked puzzled - that was certainly not the response he was expecting.

“That...thing...with the knife. I’m quite sure that is not in De Marchant’s  _Sword Exercise._ ”

Grant shook his head at Strange’s unexpected knowledge of military combat manuals. 

“Needs must.” He shrugged. “And I have spent a lot of time among Spanish and Portuguese who would employ any tactics at their disposal to wreak revenge on those who have raped and killed their loved ones. It is not just the languages I have picked up, they have some....”

The way Strange was looking at him caused him to stop mid sentence, “But that is not what you meant to ask, is it?”

Strange swallowed and looked at the ground, his hands still resting on Grant’s chest.

“You only injured the others. Did you have to...?”

Grant looked incredulous. “This is war, Merlin. What did you expect? What would you have me do? Allow him to kill you?”

He took a deep breath and gently placed his hand on the side of Strange’s face, lifting his head and forcing him to make eye contact.

“Perhaps I have absorbed too much from the locals, but I had no choice - that man was threatening something I hold dear and I would not hesitate to do the same again. You must know I do not enjoy killing, Merlin.”

With that, the doubts disappeared and Strange once again saw his friend in front of him, eyes pleading with him to understand. 

“I know,” he said, leaning his head into Grant’s palm, “I know.”


End file.
